


You're Wrong, Are We All Wrong?

by dogf1ght



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, andtrick - Fandom
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, Prohibition, a lil violence, and andy works there and as a hitman for some MYSTERIOUS company, andy kills a man, joe owns a speakeasy, rum-running, takes place in 1925, to bring down all the huge mobs in chicago
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 09:17:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3376133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogf1ght/pseuds/dogf1ght
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andy's a bootlegger hitman who wants to poison a mob boss. Patrick is just a small bank teller trying to walk home from work. A Prohibition au set in 1925.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pour Some Whiskey In My Coke

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a long as hell conversation I had with Xaia (aka workthewentz). Title taken from what I think the lyrics are to Bang The Doldrums by Fall Out Boy. Please point out any mistakes in spelling or grammar!

Attached to Andy's left side is a .40 caliber hand gun, ready to be pulled out the minute a cop shows up. 

Attached to Andy's right is a 24 fluid ounce bottle of liquor harder than steel, ready to be downed by the mob boss who asked to discuss business with him about an arranged marriage to combine forces.

Sometimes he wonders why he got into this business revolving around a liquor he doesn't even drink, but then Joe brings up his mom's medical bills. Thousands of dollars in medical bills, still left unpaid and piling up along with paying for the wheelchair and home-care and-

Stop,

Focus,

Breathe.

Andy rubs his tattooed neck, trying to calm himself into crossing the street. He can make it to Fortworth Headquarters, he can do it. He can give a mob boss poisonous alcohol and run out of a metaphorically burning building and collect his $350 dollars so he can pay the rent and get keep his mom alive. He can do this. 

Possibly. 

He tips his head as a flapper passes, trying to be polite while trying to keep his cool. It's 3:35 am, and Andy is expected at the boss' house at 3:50. The anxious man understands the need of punctuation: Brendon came back with a broken nose last month, coughing out that he was there 3 minutes late after he couldn't find a taxi cab. There's still a blood stain under stool #5, since nothing Joe did got the blood out of the hard wood.

Andy's now got ten minutes before he kills a man, and he can feel pigeons pecking at his stomach.

He know he shouldn't be this scared, he knows he shouldn't feel the need to grab a wall or just turn back. He's done this before, five times even. But he still feels as sick as he did the first time, when he fucked up the cop car's steering wheel so it ran off a cliff with the evidence against Joe owning a bar was sent up in flames. Sadly, so were two police officers and a petty robber, but that's an occupational hazard.

He waits outside the building, not going in until the big clock on the building adjacent to the headquarters strikes 3:50.

One minute passes, Andy's heart begins to take the starting line.

Two minutes pass, his heart takes his place between his ribs.

Three minutes, his heart begins to vibrate in its starting lane.

Four minutes, his heart can hear the cheering of the crowd as the man raises the gun.

Five minutes, the gun goes off. Andy steps through the doors, nodding at the receptionist, her neatly curled hair only moving slightly and she clocks him into the system, calling the boss. She's quiet for a few seconds, then nods in the direction of a gold-plated elevator. He nods back.

There's a lot of nodding in the hitman business.

Andy tips his head at the elevator operator, saying a soft "top floor" to the scrawny kid. Andy thinks he's around 12, but he can see the outline of a switchblade on the inside of his crisp white socks, so he's not going to say anything.

All Andy can do now is breathe. In through the nostrils, out through the mouth. No matter how fast his heart faces, a man is going to be dead within the next hour. He's in far too deep to step back now. 

When he reaches the top floor, he doesn't tip the operator, like he normally would. That kids probably gets paid $3 an hour, he doesn't need the money. (Or the fingerprints, but that's not really the point.)

The elevator leads directly into the boss' office, so Andy just walks right in, grabbing a glass and pouring half the bottle into a glass on the desk. 

"You've done good Hurley. Now, why are you here?" The boss takes a sip just as he finishes his question. 

Andy replies, still standing. "My boss wants me to tell you that he needs the paperwork by Saturday if you want to marry your daughter off. He needs the proof by then." 

"You got it kid, now get outta my sight and let me finish my drink." The boss waves with his drink in hand and Andy nods ever so lightly, leaving the room with an exhale and a "down please" to the Elevator operator. Tonight is gonna be a long night for Andy's conscience.

 

////

 

His heart is racing, he's running in an alleyway, and sweat is pouring from him like Niagra Falls. There's no way he can look calm right now. No way in Hell he can get through this, right?

Just focus on your feet, he tells himself, just focus on your feet. It's a trick taught to him by Joe the night of his first hit, the night he decided he'd never smoke or drink or do drugs. He felt like he couldn't breathe as the illegal gas filled his lungs, and he began to pace. "Just fucking count your feet, big shot," he called, mocking the ginger-bearded teenager.

Leftrightleftrightleftrightleftrightleftrightleftrightleftri-

Then Andy runs into someone.

He clashes with a man dressed as if he wants to look sharp but couldn't afford a real suit. Why the hell is this kid walking around at 4:30 at night?

Andy asks him if he's okay just as he guy gets up. The brown-haired man answers out a "yeah" while brushing dirt off his grey suit, or whatever he's wearing. Andy can't see well in the dimly-lit alleyway. He sighs, apologizing.

"It's no problem," the man answers. "I'm Patrick, by the way." They get a decent look of each other as they shake hands. Well, more of a once-over, since the shit lighting prevents them from getting a good intake of each other's being.

"Good, I'm Andy, sorry about that. Just, nerves, I guess." 

Andy's voice seems higher. 

Andy's heart is quickening. 

Andy wants to kiss Patrick. 

While he's contemplating asking the guy out to dinner, he notices Patrick lean back, looking as if he wants to run but his feet won't let them. What was it? What happened? What had Andy done?

That's when Andy notices the reflection off his broken bottle. That's when Andy notices Patrick notice the reflection off of the broken bottle.

Then they both smell the illegal substance leaking through Andy's jacket.

Then Andy hits Patrick in the side of the head so hard he passes out.


	2. And I'll Tell You How You Missed It When You Wake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Titled taken from Wake Up by Two Door Cinema Club.
> 
> NOTE:   
> sheba = an attractive woman  
> hooch = bootleg liquor  
> razz = make fun of  
> giggle water: an alchoholic beverage  
> Gin Mill = a place where bootleg beer is sold (another word for speakeasy)  
> blip off = to kill  
> blow someone down = to kill someone  
> boozehound = drunkard  
> close your head = be quiet  
> dizzy with a dame = to be in love with a woman  
> deck of luckies = a pack of cigerettes  
> line = insincere flattery (NOT COCAINE)  
> looker = pretty woman  
> bump gums = talk about something not worthwhile
> 
> (I'll put these at the beginning of each chapter when I introduce more slang as it goes along)

Patrick groans. He's tired, and feels like his head and feet and hands are weights while the rest of his body is floating. He can tell he's strapped to a table, with his wrists and ankles bound apart. His mouth is covered with what only he can assume is an old bed sheet, since he can feel the thin material with his tongue. His head hurts like hell, and it's like his entire body is asleep, like when you don't move your legs after a long day of sitting in a chair. He hasn't felt this way since his was 15 and Pete hit him in the back of a head with a beer bottle when they were 15 and Brendon "doubted his pitching skills." (At least, that's what Pete told Patrick in the hospital while the nurse was lecturing him about taking care of himself while having a concussion. Pete later said she was just bumping gums, since he was such a good caretaker.)

Oh god, Pete. He must be worried sick.

Patrick had told him that he'd be back right after he got home from working an extra shift to help pay for Hemingway's medical bills. Stupid dog ran into the street and slammed his head into a fucking light pole. A light pole! Nobody's home in that dog. He should be home right now, petting him while Pete goes on and on about the guy at his job who did something to piss him off. Last week a guy missed the trash can

But no, here's here, wherever that is, trying to get a cloth from his mouth and figure out why the hell he's stretch out on a table, fully clothes. Patrick can realize he's not 100% sure of what's going on around him; he feels dizzy, like there's fuzzy spots in certain places of his brain trying to clear up but never being wiped away. Like when Pete takes a hot shower, only to leave a steamy mirror for Patrick to shave and brush his teeth with. He doesn't open his eyes, for fear of being knocked back out again keeps his nerves hypersensitive and his eyes locked shut. Patrick shivers as he begins to hear voices, addressing what he's assuming is his state of being.`

"...Sheba. Admit it, Andy!"

"Shut the fuck up Joe you're....."

"...those gams!..." 

".......Dallon get the boy some water........not giggle water!"

So Patrick can hear little bits and pieces; that's bits and pieces more than a few minutes ago. He tries to move his ears towards the voice that called him the sheba. They were razzing him! Fucking asshole. Fuck them. Patrick's breathing harder now, he's been told about mob members who torment their victims verbally before doing in physically. His fight or flight response tells him to move around, become conscience, be able to recall this. Patrick moves a little bit, wiggling his hips and upper body and arching his back, trying to regain feelings in his limbs. 

"..Gin Mill....don't call the cops!"

That's when Patrick stops moving. 

He's in a Gin Mill.

He's surrounded by hooch.

And he's surrounded by men.

Shit.

Patrick's eye fly open, and he can't help himself from struggling to get away from the men. What would they do to him? Cut him up and throw his body into the ocean? Feed bits of him to their dogs? Keep his body in their hooch barrels? Pete told him about that one time, he heard about this mob that blipped off some guys and, in order to dispose of the bodies, kept them in barrels of their hardest liquor to mask the stench of decomposition. Some boozehounds died after that. Pete said it was unrelated, but Patrick still get chills up his spine thinking about it. Blowing someone down only to have someone else blown down. 

Patrick groans in pain, his whole body aching. A man with tattoos all up his arms and his neck immediately tries to walk toward him, but a lean man with a head of unruly hair and a deck of luckies in his breast pocket stops him and points to Patrick with wide eyes. "You're dizzy with a dame!" He screams, and begins laughing like his friend had just been given a line by a looker.

The man (Andy, right? His name is Andy?) who slugged him last night turns to curly-haired man, his own hair looking like he's been running his hands through it all night. There's a scotch on the rocks in his hand. "Close your head you-" But then Patrick makes eye contact, and Andy's hardened face becomes soft within a matter of seconds. Like a lion shrinking to a kitten, Patrick thinks. Andy kneels down to Patrick's level, reaching over to stroke Patrick's face as if to comfort him.

"You okay, Pat?" Andy asks, stroking his hair like a mother to a sick child. Patrick just glares at Andy, looking down at his mouth. Just then a tall, skinny man with dark brown hair and a mustache that belongs on a twelve year old rips the cloth off of his mouth, allowing him to answer. Patrick thanks the tall man, who just shrugs and walks away.

"Don't tall me Pat." the small man monotones, raising his eyebrow and keeping a straight face. Really? Of all the things he could have said, he chose to tell them to not call him "Pat?" Those could have been his last words. He could have said "I love my mother," the classic "please don't hurt me," or even a plea to animal lovers: "I have an injured dog at home." Well, if worse comes to worse, at least they won't cross "Pat Stump" off the list of people they have to blip.

The curly-haired man that called him a dame looks at him and shrugs, "Yeah, cool whatever. I don't give a shit. As long as you're not going to go spill to the cops about what we've got here, and that my little friend," the man pats Andy's head. Andy tries to bite him. "slugged ya, we'll all be good and you can leave here with minimal injuries." 

Snitches get stitches, he thinks.

Andy's still by his side, looking at him up and down as to make sure he's not hurt or not. Patrick thinks is the best time to ask the most important, and probably the last question of his short, vulnerable life. So, with all of his might, he half-chokes out a "So, like. Can you like....untie me....maybe?" like a forth grader asking him mom for cookies.

That's why, when Andy laughs and immediately goes by cutting the ties off of Patrick with a butterfly knife, he flinches like Andy's about to hit him. 

Andy laughs, then grunts. Patrick's ties are thick, with multiple layers of cloth holding him inert. "Calm down, I'm just trying to get you free."

Patrick glares at his captor. "Yeah, I mean, it's not like there's a muscular person who's heavily tattooed, surrounded by hooch and dressing like he's in a gang near me using a butterfly knife to me away from a table. And he could, ya know, bop me or something."

The minute Patrick shuts his mouth, he knows it's all Pete. He really should stop listening in on him while he's talking on the phone. Next thing knows he'll be entertaining flappers like it's a sport.

"Well," Andy says, interrupting Patrick's thoughts. "You're definitely surrounded by hooch, this is a speakeasy, and we all are dressed quite nice, however" he cuts the final ties on Patrick's arms. "We are not going to kill you."

The curly haired man throws the butt of a blunt into an old can of baked beans and straightens his posture. "Yeah man, we don't kill the cute ones."

**Author's Note:**

> please god let me know if this is terrible this is my first bandom fanfic and I'm still contemplating taking this down :/


End file.
